Wings of Fate
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Fate brought the MCRT together long before they ever actually met . . . . Pre-NCIS


**A/N: OK, so this is a little AUish maybe. I took a slight break from Tony/Ziva and decided to do something with Gibbs (because Gibbs is just as awesome). Anyway, I'm not in love with this piece, but it works out fine. It takes place anywhere from 1998 to 2001 before Tony came to NCIS and before Gibbs and Jenny went their seperate ways job-wise. And other than it being told in Gibbs second person, that's about it. I hope you like it, Kit**

**DISCLAIMER: I wish. (don't we all?)**

Wings of Fate

The airport was bustling with a flurry of activity, small children clinging to parents' hands, businessmen in crisp suits talking loudly into cell phones, college students ambling around with heavy backpacks. An occasional pilot would step out of a coffee shop, fresh mug of caffeine in hand, returning to their loading planes. The steady drone of luggage wheels clacked along the trodden floors, the loud din of voices sporadically drowned out as huge airliners commenced in their respective takeoffs. It all was merely the usual tedium of the John F. Kennedy Airport.

"Jethro!"

You look up to see a short redhead making her way toward you, stilettos muffled against the carpeted floor of the gate. She looked annoyed and, though you rack your brain quickly, you can't think of anything you've done in the last half hour to set her off.

"You left me outside the ladies room," she accuses and there's that. Mystery solved. She plops down next to you and you offer her a Styrofoam cup of lukewarm coffee as a peace offering. She accepts, reluctantly, taking a sip and finding the cream to coffee to sweetener ratio to her satisfaction. You lean back in the stiff plastic chair, settling in to people watch as you wait impatiently for your flight to board.

Two men walk past, the older of the pair rolling his eyes in exasperation as the younger guy yammers on about something apparently pointless. You manage to catch a few fleeting words of the one sided conversation, mentionings of "Sean Connery" "die another day" and "Bond, James Bond." You pity the elder gentlemen, admiring him for his strength in ignoring the sandy-haired man, now waving wild gesticulations. They pass within seconds, BALTIMORE P.D. emblazoned across the shoulders of their black windbreakers and you can't help but wish you could slap the rookie.

The squealing from the gate across from you draws your attention away from the other cops. Another flight has apparently deboarded because a throng of people are slowly dispersing from the loading tunnel. A tall, Goth is hopping up and down in excitement, her ebony pigtails swinging as she cranes her neck to get a better view at the disembarking crowd. Suddenly she launches herself at an older couple, a streak of black, tightly embracing the woman, who immediately tears up. The man is signing something, his fingers spelling out the words and symbols of a silent language you are familiar with. The Goth signs back, babbling at light speed as her fingers move rapidly, fluidly over the unspoken words. She links her left arm with the woman, threading her other arm through the man's, half-walking, half-skipping as she leads them away, swinging an onyx parasail, happily content. Neither seem to be bothered by the spikes protruding from her necklace and bracelets.

You look to your left, catching the gaze of a college student in a MIT sweater shirt, studying you over his computer screen. The laptop is open on his knees, headphones nestled over his ears. His eyes widen in shock and he diverts them quickly, a blush creeping across his cheeks, staining them pink. The kid is definitely socially inept, though the speed and ease in which he uses the technology spread around him makes him jealous. You long ago adopted the stance to not accept the changes of a technological world because for whatever reason you are computer illiterate. But you can wield a gun and carry your badge with honor and can do your job just fine without the assistance of innovation. However, you size the kid up quickly, and decide that beneath the geeky exterior is a guy that'll be somebody someday.

You grow bored rapidly of watching your watchman and cast around for someone else to amuse you. Two people, an older man and a very young woman, occupy the chairs at the end of the row, only half a dozen vacant seats separating you. The man is alert in his wrinkled dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He runs a hand through his dark hair, sighing forlornly. The woman next to him shifts in her seat, recrossing her legs. She is exotic, middle eastern you decide. She has her hair tied back with a scarf, but a few black curls have escaped their confines and rest on her olive skinned face. Her dark brow furrows as she looks at the watch on her wrist and murmurs something to the man beside her. You can't be sure, but you suspect she is speaking Hebrew.

And then the flight attendant's voice filters over the intercom, announcing that flight 1734 is now loading so you stand, stretching, pivoting your head, working out the kinks. Jenny rises beside you, slinging her carryon over her shoulder, taking the boarding pass you slide her.

Later, much, much later, after Jenny is long gone, you still remember Paris.


End file.
